Cocoa Beef occurred to me when I needed her. Tripping. I was alone. I saw those pancake tits when I had no hope. Imagine it.

“Victor.”

“It doesn’t go by its name.” A laugh cracked. Wall of sound.

Cocoa Beef Drapes she wanted to go by at first. She yearned to have beef curtains. She ate sumptuously. Got that glucose up, got that insulin up, got that cellular formation around that chest, and got those 1930s tits. Pointy pancakes. They were pointy, for pancakes. What she wanted for in beef drapes she had in 1930s titties. Yes, she had tits; she had those vaguely feminine, sore-nipped-fourteen-year-old-boy milk sacks thrice-magnified.

She came and went and when she came, no ejaculation. She wasn’t pre-op or post-op; never had the operation, never wanted to. Just couldn’t sprinkle, shotgun, or jetstream jizz. She never got hard. Beef Drapes had the one focus. She was a Christian Scientist. So, disease: chronic, flaccid penis; regimen: staunch prayer. Church Sunday through Saturday. Went to church as Victor. I don’t get it either.

She did succeed in convincing Kyle Crowley, a trash-stached, Nebraska-based cucky. She mentioned the beef drapes. She was horny. She said “I want you to pierce my wet, churned and crimped tapestry. But first, I wanna grind it on that Selleck.”

PierPONT will twist and churn and crimp that cuckystick and fulfill all your masochistic visions for just $19.95 an hour.

Here’s one client’s testimonial: “I had no idea how much bruising could be inflicted on my penis in just one hour. Pierpont went beyond my wildest fantasies.”

Another loyal enthusiast said: “I’ve always wanted rope burn down there. I didn’t know it was possible until my initial consultation with Pierpont. Right then and there, I booked her for all the free time I had.”

The building I’m in looks just like the city outside. It’s a library but it’s full of people, stone, glass, and metal, and the shelves are heighted and arranged just like the structures off the street.

This is my sandbox. I’m trying out a new self, and I want to keep the experiment contained, focused for now.

There is an architect named Rich Shepherd my age who looks just like me in the same city. I’ve always had a visual way of interacting and an appreciation for space. Good find.

“Hello, Maggie,” I said to the the curly-haired, ginger, early-forties librarian behind the counter.

“Sih-r,” she broke during that single syllable like: sih-she took off her glasses and dipped her chin while keeping eye contact-r. Her shoulders jerked up and down a bit, along with her hips. This one’s sensitive, potentially attracted, and/or neurologically defective. Any case, she’s a find!

“First, I like your scarf—it looks breathable. Second, I’m an architect and I can’t help but be inspired by this place as such—or you.” I smile.

She dries up instantly—it’s obvious.

“Just saying.” I walk on to fiction.

There, I see a girl. I say she’s a girl because she looks about twenty. I’m twenty-seven at the time.

She’s reading Cat’s Cradle, which I don’t like at all—too “why did he write this,” for me. But I understand the need to taste overrated stink in order to recognize it, and that’s where she is at. She’s cracking up laughing.

“I’m reading The Da Vinci Code. So exhilarating.” I wasn’t, and it sucked; I just took a cynical, sixty-forty chance.

“Fuck off, bitch.” She says, never taking her eyes off the page.

“I’m an architect, you know…”

She’s not listening.

On to self-help; desperation can’t hurt.

There she is—reading Dr. Phil, around forty-six years old, no ring on her finger, once attractive but rendered underwhelming by excessive empathy. I’m gittin’ laid tonight!

“I love him. I love the suspense element of his show: ‘what you nied to do is…more Dr. Phil after words from our sponsors…Welch’s grape juice is now fortified with chia seed <lip smack>…what’s right for you!’ that bitterness of minor abandonment warms my heart and sweetens the inevitable sweetness every time.”

“You’re a sardonic dickhead. Dr. Phil is a genius. Why are your pants stuffed? Why are you wearing sunglasses? Why are you wearing a fake torso that makes you look forty pounds heavier than you are? Seriously, who does all that at the same time?”

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I write the voices--inner and outer; sometimes nonhuman, inanimate voices loudly or quietly or silently or nonverbally telling me what I see and hear and taste and smell and feel and think, how others might sense and feel and think under real or imagined circumstances and how that all hangs together--that contribute to my inner life.